Page 30 of Fierce Love
“Can I come in?” he asks when it probably seems like any form of speech has left me.
“Oh, uh, yeah,” I say, stepping aside and cringing internally at the mess he’ll soon discover.
“Is Kinsley here?” he asks.
“No,” I say as I close the door behind him. “She’s making fast friends in the apartment complex.”
“I’ve heard Bellerive can feel very cliquey to an outsider, so I’m glad to hear that.”
I’m sure the upper echelon of Bellerive isn’t as easy to break into. Cal and Sawyer were the only ones in Nate’s circle who were welcoming in high school. The working poor have always held out a hand to help others up—at least all the people I’ve ever known. Well, except my parents’ associates, but I’d hardly call what they get up to “work,” though I’m sure they’d disagree.
“I didn’t think we were starting until next week,” I say, gesturing to the remnants of my aunt’s life lying around the tiny apartment. “I was hoping to get all this sorted out before then.” Even if the sorting is painful and forces me to switch off every feeling that threatens to surface. The clear-out requires practicality and logic, not sentimentality. Ever since I was a kid, I could compartmentalize aspects of my life with ease. I had to in order to survive the chaos my parents had following them like their own personal hurricane. But when Nate blew into my life, that skill abandoned me. I went so all-in with him that no aspect of my life went untouched. I’ve never made that mistake again.
“That’s correct,” Nate says, scanning the room. “Next week.” He purses his lips. “Do you want help with this? It seems like a lot for you to handle alone.”
“Kinsley’s helping,” I say, which is a lie. She’s avoided the whole thing. She has no emotional compartments, and anytime I’ve asked her to pitch in, she’s burst into tears and fled to her room the minute something sentimental or meaningful lands in her lap, unearthed. “You obviously didn’t come here to help me clear out my aunt’s apartment,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back into safer waters. It would be so easy to take his help, sink back into the familiar rapport.
“Right. Yeah.” He takes a deep breath. “There’s been a necessary change in producers, and I wanted to tell you in person that I’ll now be the one overseeing the day-to-day production decisions. The other two will offer notes and guidance, but they won’t be as heavily involved.”
He can’t meet my gaze for some reason.
“Do you want to sit down?” I ask, not sure where to take this conversation now.
He nods and settles into the love seat. I stand awkwardly in front of him, not taking the obvious second seat beside him.
“Do you want me to quit?” I ask, trying to read what’s going on with his awkward reluctance. “If you want me to quit, I’ll quit. I can still go back to New York.”
“Do youwantto quit?” he asks, which isn’t an answer to my question. “Because if this won’t work for you, I can try to find another producer to replace me. It’ll delay everything, but I can… I can do that.”
My legs feel shaky, and I’m not sure if it’s from the idea of working closely with him or having him quit so I can keep the job. I sink into the seat beside him, and when I turn toward him, there’s so little space between us that I almost believe I can feelhis body heat radiating off him. Sitting was a bad idea, but now that I’m here, I only want to inch closer, not further away.
“I don’t want you to quit,” I whisper.
“I don’t wantyouto quit,” he says. “We’ve been looking for the perfect person to bounce off Posey for months. Losing you would be…” He shakes his head, and when he meets my gaze, I wonder if we’re still talking about the production. “You’re impossible to replace.”
“Nate—”
“Nathaniel,” he corrects quietly but firmly.
“Old habits,” I say.
“Long gone,” he says, but he takes a strand of my long hair and twists it around his finger. “Things change.”
Some things don’t change enough, because the heat between us on this love seat is stifling. My breaths come shallow as he loops my hair around his finger.
“Sorry,” he says, letting the piece slide off in a twirl, back out of his reach. “Thatwas unprofessional.” A hint of a wry smile touches his lips. “Muscle memory—an uncontrollable reflex. It used to be so short.”
“Running your hands through my hair is an uncontrollable reflex? Should I be alerting HR?” I raise my eyebrows, but I can hear the flirty tone in my voice.
“One lock of hair is hardly a sin,” he says, and when our gazes meet, there’s heat behind his words.
What sins would he like to commit? Because certain parts of my body—a lot more than a few strands of hair—are game to get involved in whatever ideas are running through his mind. And Ireallyshouldnotbe having these thoughts.
“Are we agreeing to work together?” I ask, my voice breathless.
“I think we are,” he says, searching my expression. “Do you think we can handle it?”
Not a chance. One of us is going to crash and burn, and I definitely don’t want it to be Nate, but I don’t want it to be me either. The smart thing would be to quit the job or ask him to walk away. There’s still too much bubbling under the surface between us. So much is unsaid, unknown.
